Volume One
by Tha Kalligrapha
Summary: What?


Collected Essays of Simon Miller

Vol. 1

* * *

Current weather conditions for…

Brinkman Flats…

Cloudy…

High: sixty-seven degrees…

Occasional rain…

Winds: south by southeast at…

Thirty-five miles per hour…

Chance of precipitation…

Seventy percent.

* * *

December 15, 2007

They were two of the most fearsome criminals known to Mobius.

Since their meteoric rise to prominence, massive quantities of treasure had been pilfered from the Bank of Acorn, deadly technology pirated, pioneered, and proliferated, hazardous narcotics trafficked for record profit, and countless innocent lives claimed in the process.

Most disturbingly, throughout all of this, both men had managed to remain fugitives from the law.

* * *

Current weather conditions for…

West Genesee…

Cloudy…

High: sixty degrees…

Rain…

Winds out of the southeast at…

Forty-seven miles per hour…

Becoming cyclonic…

Chance of precipitation…

Ninety percent.

* * *

October 14, 2007

I fight to remain attached to my escort as a trio of squat conductors usher the heaving throng of anxious passengers onboard. Leather-soled boots scrape the narrow metal staircase, gloved paws grope the slippery railings, frozen breath glistens in the dry winter air as three dozen perfect strangers stagger awkwardly onto the heated passenger cars of a rusted freight train.

"Where are we headed?" A biting gust of wind sweeps my voice down the gravel-laden tracks, unheard. My grip tightens around the sleeve of Nack's parka; the scruffy-furred weasel turns a dull blue eye towards me and calmly furrows his brow.

"Where is this train headed?"

"Away from here," he replies, a cool grin spreading across his age-lined features. I look away, sheepishly averting his gaze.

Nack shrugs, shouldering a large black travelling case. He pauses momentarily to straighten the front of his droopy stocking cap before pressing through the rapidly thinning crowd, his motions deliberate, calculated, confident.

I follow him, clutching his elbow like a frightened child, allowing myself to be swept into the cramped boarding car alongside him, my heart throbbing uneasily. _Away from here?_

The conductors wrench the doors shut behind us, throwing the latches into place with a certain unwarranted satisfaction: padlocking, securing, checking, rechecking, double-rechecking. My heart leaps into my throat.

"Let's find a place to sit," Nack murmurs, seizing my shoulder, drawing me back to reality—the hurriedness in his rugged tone, however, suggests that our seating arrangements have already been taken care of.

The train rolls forward at a snail's pace, its muffled horn sounding in short, sequential bursts, signaling its imminent departure. Meanwhile, Nack leads me stumbling through the crowded aisles of a seemingly endless passenger car crammed with scores of grumbling, impatient commuters attempting to stow baggage too bulky for their own compartments and scrambling to locate friends and family. We squeeze our way through the crowd, grinding to a halt in front of an inconspicuous row of seats near the back of the train.

"Sit down," Nack demands, a familiar broad, lip-locked grin spreading silently over his features.

I settle in next to the small, fingerprint-streaked window; Nack follows suit, sinking into the tattered, burgundy-colored chair beside me, loosening his collar, resting one foot casually on the seat closest to the aisle. I can't keep my eyes off of him; they're turning to liquid, pleading for an explanation, details within reason, anything to calm my nerves.

"I'm not used to this fucking shit."

"What's that?"

"Nothing."

"You just sit there. Hang tight. Let me take care of things. Sound good?" He pats me on the shoulder, roughly, paternally. "You don't even have to talk if you don't want to."

"I don't."

* * *

Current weather conditions for…

Station Square, western borough…

Cloudy…

High: fifty-six degrees…

Thundershowers…

Mix of rain and hail…

Winds out of the east at…

Fifty-five miles per hour…

Cyclonic…

Chance of precipitation…

One hundred percent.

* * *

August 2, 2007

Rotor knew the path he walked all too well. From the vibrant epicenter of Knothole Village, a rugged dirt trail extended deep into the heart of the Great Forest, down a gradual incline, towards the uninhabitable marsh to the south. Where the murky water overcame the land, the trail 

abruptly transformed into a rickety wooden boardwalk, then snaked around the ancient water wheel which supplied the village with power. As with any other day, this was the young walrus's destination.

Despite the tedium of the journey, Rotor often enjoyed the brisk morning stroll, particularly for the brief moments of peace it afforded him, the introspectiveness it encouraged, the secret delights it had revealed to him. Although he rarely paid much attention to the intricacies of nature while entrenched in his daily grind, he had come to develop a certain appreciation for the tranquil crooning of the birds, the distant chirp of the crickets, even the unshakeable conniving of the mosquitoes, whom he swatted at playfully in their benign attempts to feed off him. There was something majestic, he had resolved, in the perfection with which the entire ecosystem was stitched together, something deliberate, something possessive of an intelligence far beyond the meager boundaries of his own worldly mind.

Straightening his faded yellow cap, wiping the sweat from his brow, Rotor calmly unlocked the gate blocking access to the water wheel; the simple metal barrier had been installed only a few years ago to deter some of the rowdier children from playing too closely to the only source of electricity in the entire village. Even with the extra hurdle in place, however, there was at least one boy still agile enough to conquer it.

Nack was twelve years old and loved to fish. But while the vast majority of other boys his age engaged in the activity merely for the sheer thrill of the catch, Nack never returned the fish he angled to the water, even at the behest of his little sister who found his blatant mistreatment of the helpless creatures sadistic. Nack, of course, saw things quite differently. In his mind, the fish became his property the instant they latched onto his bait. They were wondrous trophies, accomplishments, testaments to his expertise, not mere tokens to be observed, admired, and then forgotten altogether. What was the point in catching them, he reasoned, if they were only to be thrown directly back into the water? There was no good to be obtained in frightening the poor things half to death, ripping them from their sheltered world, scarring them, degrading them, then forcing them to continue living with their torment. The way he saw it, once the fish had been yanked from the water, snatched away from their protective bubble, brought to the other side, they was better off dead anyway.

Not many shared his divergent point of view, but that didn't stop the defiant young weasel from fishing his way—with a sturdy birch rod he had fashioned himself—whenever and wherever he pleased. In fact, one of his favorite locations to plop down and dangle his feet in the water was on the opposite side of the very gate which had been emplaced to discourage him. Early in the morning, long before any of his friends—or even Rotor, for that matter—were awake, he would clamber out of bed, follow the trail out of Knothole, sprint across the boardwalk under the glow of the stars, and scale the gate in front of the water wheel with no difficulty at all. The first few times Rotor had caught him, he had vainly attempted to reprimand the boy (it quickly became apparent to him that he did not possess much of a voice for discipline) but as Nack continued to trespass, Rotor gradually began to soften to his presence. After all, the boy did not appear to be stirring up any trouble, nor did he seem to display much interest in the water wheel, let alone tampering with it; the fish were his only concern. As the weeks unfolded into months, Rotor even 

began to develop a certain fondness for the weasel, especially his dry wit, which was amazingly sharp for a child his age.

Although he knew the boy did not show his face more than three or four times each week, Rotor almost always expected, upon opening the gate, to find Nack calmly seated on the edge of the plank, his violet fur slightly disheveled, sea green eyes scanning the dark, algae-laden water for movement, line drifting serenely over the gentle waves, a small fish or two flopping weakly at his side. To Rotor it had become almost a disappointment whenever Nack was not there in the morning to share in his pensiveness. Seemingly, as he stepped through, easing the gate shut behind him and glancing around earnestly, this was another of those mornings; the boy was nowhere to be found.

Shrugging his broad shoulders and shaking his head slightly in response to no one in particular, Rotor immediately went about his business, crossing the narrow boardwalk to the massive water wheel and square keypad which stood mounted to a wooden post beside it. The functionality of the wheel was ultimately dependent upon a number of smaller factors such as water depth, wind speed, and tide strength, though most of the dynamics were basically negligible when compared to the grand importance of maintaining the potency of the Chaos Emerald framed squarely in the center. Maintenance, for the most part, revolved solely around matching the subtle and varying harmonic frequencies the Emerald emitted with charges of equal and opposite force. The beauty and efficiency of the mechanism, however, was often lost in the sea of technical jargon required to describe it. Rotor knew this to be fact, having tried and failed to explain its intricacies to the less-versed on a number of occasions. Only Tails, a skilled mechanic in his own right, seemed able to grasp the basic concept of it, however slightly.

* * *

Current weather conditions for…

Station Square, southern borough…

Cloudy…

High: fifty degrees…

Thundershowers…

Mix of rain and hail…

Winds out of the northeast at…

Sixty-eight miles per hour…

Cyclonic…

Reaching gale force…

Chance of precipitation…

One hundred percent.

* * *

August 5, 2007

A young woman, a weasel, sat cross-legged in the center of a darkened room, surrounded by wooden walls, wooden floorboards, wooden rafters, wooden tables and chairs. Two large burlap sacks—one full, the other limp and empty—lay unattended at her feet. The lone source of illumination sprang from the eye of a slowly-revolving lighthouse situated one mile off the coastline, its dim blue glow occasionally streaking past the dust-choked windows, causing ghostly shadows to extend throughout the room, vanishing into blackness only seconds later, mere apparitions.

There was a knock at the door, a gentle, unassuming tap, and the female weasel instantly leapt out of her chair, stalked heavily across the floor, and wrenched open the door. A brilliant smile, rendered all but invisible under the imposing blanket of shadows, greeted her visitor, a scruffy male weasel of similar proportions, matching hazel eyes, and equally elongated canines.

"Nack." She pronounced his name with a certain bluntness and casualness which seemed to emphasize its lack of character, its plainness, almost teasingly. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten."

"Good evening to you, too, sis." He traipsed past her, removing the brown canvas bag slung over his shoulder and allowing it to dangle loosely at his side, pausing momentarily in the center of the room. "Would a bit of light be out of the question?"

His sister did not challenge him on this, groping in the blackness for the nearest light switch as she eased the door shut. Above them, a pair of weak fluorescent bulbs crackled to life and began humming noisily, instantly attracting the attention of a small gathering of curious gnats which hovered listlessly towards the ceiling.

Nack turned to face his younger sibling, his eyes briefly surveying her slender figure for the first time in almost three years. Her silky violet fur was as flawless as ever, not mangy, filthy, and unkempt like his own. She wore a string of silver beads around her neck, and her attire—like the room only seconds ago—was all-black, right down to her boots. Not wishing to appear conspicuous, he quickly averted his gaze, adjusting the brim of his faded, wrinkled duster, clearing his throat, setting his duffle bag on the table with as much indifference as he could put on.

"Nice doing business with you again, Nic," he proclaimed, not quite truthfully, tucking his hands into his pockets. "How's mom?"

"Misses us," Nic replied coldly, as though foreign to the very concept. "Stacks of photo albums next to her bed, old stories, memories…" Noticing the downcast expression on her brother's face, she folded her arms haughtily and added: "She's a basket case."

"What about you?" Nack interjected, abruptly changing the subject. "You been working?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" She grinned from flattened ear to flattened ear, her green eyes glimmering in the subtle light.

Nack weakly returned the gesture, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Well then," he murmured, "let's get this over with."

Nic nodded in agreement, crossing the room to retrieve her bounty. Meanwhile, Nack remained standing, watching her closely as she hoisted each bulging sack onto the table, hesitated, and gazed silently into his face.

"Is that it?" he asked after a beat, extending a finger towards the heavier of the two bags.

"C'mon, big bro," she chided him, smirking broadly, "you know how this works. _The money always comes first."_ She stressed each syllable louder and longer than the one before it, pounding the tabletop with the palm of her hand as she spoke.

Nack inhaled sharply, appearing as though he would've liked to argue, but quickly decided against it, furrowing his brow. "Money first" was one of the tent poles of exchanges in their line of work, one of the very first rules of thumb he had taught her when she had begun to express an interest in bounty hunting.

"Fine," he grumbled, unzipping the bag in front of him, opening it wide enough for her to see the bundles of Mobian credits stashed inside. "Satisfied?"

Nic pursed her lips and smiled. "As satisfied as I'm going to be." She pried open one of the bags in front of her, reaching inside with both hands, fumbling around for something, eyeing her brother intensely.

Nack's heart skipped a beat; he should have seen it coming. One hand went to the gun at his waist, but he wasn't fast enough. Nic withdrew her own pistol, eyes aligning down the sight. She aimed directly at her brother's forehead, a scowl descending over her sharp, angular features.

"Hands up," she demanded chillingly, ruthlessness and detachment distorting her normally-placid voice.

Frozen with disbelief, Nack did not immediately obey his sister's orders.

"I'm not afraid to kill you, bro," she snarled. "Nothing personal, just doing my job."

Reluctance showing through his mannerisms, Nack slowly raised his gloved hands to his shoulders, palms facing outwards, grimacing angrily. "It's always the last person you expect," he murmured.

* * *

Current weather conditions for…

Station Square, eastern borough…

High: forty-five degrees…

Intense thundershowers…

Mix of rain and hail…

Winds out of the east at…

Eighty-one miles per hour…

Cyclonic…

Gale force…

Seek shelter immediately…

Chance of precipitation…

One hundred percent.

* * *

Six years ago.

Sandopolis Zone had been compromised for ages.

What few derelict oil rigs remained were either damaged beyond repair, overrun with enemy forces, or a combination of the two.

This was not, however, an object of concern to the higher-ups in charge of the local Militia.

Oil was a necessity. Without it, nothing worked. Without it, the world grew darker, instantaneously.

At present, oil had become a precious commodity, and the number of officers willing to run harvesters across the dunes of Sandopolis had also become short in kind.

Pressured to provide relief for his commanding officers, Espio threw caution to the wind. Within days, he had assembled a sparse yet functional crew of handpicked specialists to both man and defend the colossal fuel harvester and its precious cargo from assault.

Needless to say, I had been selected for the latter purpose.

My experience as a scout sniper during the Ice Cap conflict, and my subsequent reputation as an unusually resolute, quick-thinking conscript, had made me just the hawk-eye Espio and his advisors were searching for.

The fact that I possessed entirely no experience or training in any sort of desert environment was of little concern to them.

"Contact is contact," they assured me, straight-faced. "Sand or snow."

But my role alone was not the only aspect of the mission which unsettled me.

The harvester itself cut an imposing image: twenty feet tall, nearly fifty feet in length, housing a massive, cylindrical fuel tanker along the spine capable of hauling up to eighty tons of raw crude oil. Exactly thirty-two powerful, serrated tires, specially designed for gripping the unruly desert floor, lined the sprawling underbelly of the machine, and fifteen separate exhaust pipes, rusted from decades of overuse, snaked from end to end in elaborate yet delicate patterns.

When the vehicle reached maximum velocity - approximately fifty miles per hour - it was known to emit large quantities of noxious chemicals into the air, a double-edged sword. While able to cover ground at a much faster rate, the trails of curling black smoke were easily visible to enemy outposts. A significant number of harvesters had already been lost to this very function, leading me to suspect that Sandopolis Zone was a far less controlled region than my superiors had led me to believe.

No matter what my reservations, however, the decision was not mine to make.

My faith was in the wrong place.


End file.
